She was so tiny. Not even five feet tall, pink poncho wrapped around her little frame. Her eyes filled with tears the minute she saw them. Arms reached out, pulling them into her warm embrace. Her nietos, her grandchildren. Here she was, for the first time, seeing my boys.

Gabe towered over her, already way past six feet. At nineteen, he was the spitting image of his father. His smile, his wavy hair, his brown eyes- almost identical to his dad except for the light complexion he received from me. Sammie had received a skin tone comparable to his father, but his long Grecian features were from some other time and place. He, at 13, was almost topping 5'9. Between the two of them, she looked so tiny, so fragile.

Throughout the visit, she couldn't stop reaching out and touching them lightly- on the hair, on the face, on the arm. Her eyes continuously filled with tears as she babbled on and on in Spanish. How much she loved them, how much he had loved them. I translated as best I could. The boys smiled at her and tried to console her in broken Spanish.

He had died three years ago. Only 44, a massive heart attack, unexpected and deadly. He had died around ten o'clock in the evening upon returning home from work. She had woken up with the noise of his struggle and found him dead.

He and I had divorced several years ago. A long battle with alcohol addiction that he could never shake no matter how hard he tried. Counseling, AA, church in Spanish and English helped him stay sober for months at a time but inevitably, he'd fall again. Alcohol turned my sweet, loving husband into an angry, raging monster. After ten years of the battle, I lost the war and filed.

He returned to the land of his birth, pushed there by several DUIs and immigration. He lived with her for the last years of his life. Calling when he was sober, telling us of his love and grief. He wept on the phone, begged forgiveness, and promised he was going to do better. He never stopped loving me or his precious boys.

Separated by countries, language, culture, and addiction, he did the best he could to keep a relationship with his sons. I did the best I could to foster that bond.

Now, standing in my kitchen, I looked over the scene. Tiny, frail, yet also strong and mighty, his mother gave a blessing over my children. I knew that their father was there with us in that time and space. I knew that his battle was over, and he had finally found his peace. Hopefully, with this meeting, his mother and I could also find the same.

"Flight." She held the vial out to me, glistening and glowing a soft blue as the liquid slowly swirled inside.

I bowed my head, silent, still. Then with a swiftness that surpised even me, I snatched the vial, tilted my head back, and drank.

Immediately I felt the chill- icy cold flowing down my throat. My body started shivering and shaking out of my control as the liquid spread throughout my entire being like a frozen flame. It consumed me until I thought I would scream from the pain and then finally, blissful relief.

"There, you are ready." she said, and gestured towards the high vaulted ceiling of the chapel where the stained glass windows rose in regal patterns up to the circular opening at the very top.

"Thank you..." I tried to speak, but no sound escaped my lips. So the gift of the technology gods had stolen my power of speech in their giving of flight. So be it. With nothing holding me back, I looked up, bent my legs, and leaped. Suddenly, I was soaring, racing, blindingly fast towards the opening that rose above me getting bigger and bigger until with one last push of strength I was through!

Light poured down upon me and I knew that it was still not high enough. I looked even further and there the sky, the sun, the clouds! The wind whistled, cheering me on as I soared, higher and higher and higher until I burst through the clouds into the great expanse of white clouds below me and blue sky as far as the farthest horizens filled my view.

24 hours and counting... and I knew my first stop.

As I flew ever eastward, my thoughts became filled with what led me to these, my final, moments.

Our society had lasted through the centuries, building upon the great deeds of those who came before us, until we had achieved every advance that could possibly be known to mankind. No more poor, no more crime, no more disease, no more death.

At first everyone rejoiced. The defeat of death was celebrated from one end of our planet to the other, and our leaders promised that only good and blessing would now descend upon us and our descendants forever and ever. The joy lasted until the population began to overtake our planet's resources despite all our advances in technology.

And when we realized our mistake, it was too late. Despite all our knowledge, all our science, all the billions of people trying to solve the problem, we failed. And when food became scarce, the wars began.

Death returned, and with a vengeance. Billions of people blew up billions of people. Our society evenly matched in its ability to inflict death and destruction upon wide swaths of the word's population.

Finally, in the year 7824, the leaders of opposing sides crawled out from their underground bunkers and declared a truce. They realized that anything less would result in the complete destruction of the entire human race. They also realized that allowing mankind to live forever would only put humanity back into chaos, death, and destruction.

And so The Triad Choice became law. Once a citizen reached the age of 250 Earth years, they were given the choice of three- flight, invisibility, or telepathy for 24 hours. A grand finale, if you will. There was no escaping this choice for, if a citizen refused out of fear, the medication that prolonged our life past reckoning would run out and death would come immediately, without fail.

So, in a way, this was a gift. A gift of an extra 24 hours, with incredible super-human abilities. For me, there was only one choice- flight.

The sun had climbed bright and high over my head when my first destination pinged on my wristling, a device that delivered my medicine, GPS, total access to the mainframe, and answered any question known to man. I dipped my body back down through the clouds, and there it was!

The mountain, wreathed in wisps of cloud, grew larger and larger until I landed lightly, on its topmost peak. I wrapped my arms around the cool, bare rock and relaxed for the first time in the last four hours. The stillness was deafening. Without warning, my eyes filled with tear and I felt them trickle down my face as I remembered...

"Benny, keep up," she teased, and ran lightly ahead of me up the mountain path. Her blonde hair bounced as it tried to escape the ponytail she had hastily tied it into that morning after our tussle in the sheets. I laughed and quickened my pace to reach her, although I thoroughly enjoyed the view ahead of me. When I had closed the distance, her hand reached out to mine and I clasped her warm, strong fingers. Holding hands with Helen was like wearing a glove in winter- soft, comforting, and secure.

We were breathless by the time we reached the top. As we looked at the awe-inspiring view all around us, I pulled her gently into my arms. She turned, looking up at me, and I kissed her. Her mouth was warm and soft and our kiss deepened until she was crushed in my grip and her hands were wound tightly in my hair. Panting, I broke it off and without conscious thought burst out, "Helen- marry me! Be mine forever!" She pulled away in shock as I stared at her, my heart pounding in my chest. Suddenly she burst into a little squeal and leaped back into my arms.

"Yes, my Benny, a thousand lifetimes, yes!"

That was in my year 85 and her year 120. We enjoyed 130 glorious years together until her Triad of Choice. The pain of losing her has haunted every single step and every waking moment since.

"Helen, my amazing Helen, I will be with you soon." I close my eyes and breathe in the memory of that day, at this spot, so many years ago. I feel her here with me, and I smile.

Suddenly, I'm back in the air, higher and higher and higher, back up above the clouds. Next stop awaits and I turn north.

The air begins to feel warmer as the sun continues its push towards the center of the sky. It is just past midday when the tiny ping draws me back out of my long lost memories. Again I descend.

As I go lower the sounds of a bustling, busy city rise louder and louder. Spreading from one end of the horizon to the other, the capitol city of Languana lays before me. Towering dazzling high, city skyscrapers hum with the busy traffic of air scooters, sky-trucks, and the occasional bus-mobile. I dodge and weave in and out of the traffic, careful not to end my last few hours prematurely by a splat on somebody's windshield. I doubt they'd consider it worth their time to resurrect my body for a few final hours. Finally- I see it! The window on the corner of the building- level 1,346. I smiled in relief that they still keep the level numbers neatly carved into each ledge.

I hover outside the window mid-air and try to peek inside, but the curtain is pulled tightly across the opening. Daring to hope, I hold my breath as I reach out and gingerly give the window a slight tug. To my delight it opens an inch! I knock loudly on the window, ear pressed against the opening. When silence returns my knock, I tug the window fully open and fly into the room.

Once inside the noise of air traffic fades away, and my eyes quickly adjust to the gloom. "Hello?" I call out again strongly and again no reply. One short burst takes me over the wall unit and a couple of clicks later confirm my suspicions and hope. No one is home.

I glide through the air (why walk when you can fly?) and squirt past the kitchen, noting the newest gadgets on the counter and changes to the wall color. On past the living room, where the wall to wall insta-vision unit dwarfs every other piece of furniture. And finally, to THE ROOM, the only one that matters in these last few hours of my life.

A soundless sob bursts out of my body when I see the brand new infa-cradle sitting in the same spot as the older one had so many years ago. The memories rise so strongly in me that I reach out a hand to steady myself- or was it to hold myself back from flying right out again?

A vision of Helen, lovely blonde hair curling around her shoulders, rocking the baby to sleep rises in my mind. She looks up at me and smiles as my eyes travel down to the baby in her arms. The prettiest blue-eyed baby on the planet, no matter how many other billions exist. This one is ours, made from our DNA combined and grown in the latest and greatest labs our section of the planet has to offer. And again I'll say, she is ours, at least until she turns 18 years of age and is given complete freedom to pursue whatever she wants in our rich and vibrant society.

Looking back now, how could those years have flown by so quickly? Helen and I without needing to work during those 18 years due to unlimited coinage flow from our advances in technology, spend every waking moment with our darling girl. And she grows and grows and grows until she is the first one to really take flight. Not literal flight, of course, but the flight of life. Chasing whatever dreams dance across her way and out of ours.

Time is so tricky and sneaky and cruel. Where once I was the center of her world, her dreams led her farther and farther away from Helen and I until she had no thought left to spare for us. She tried, every once in a great long while, to zoom digitally back to see us, but once Helen took her Triad of Choice, even those visits slowly faded away to nothing.

Reality is even crueler than time and I realize that I don't even know where she actually is in this moment on our planet Earth and that even if I did know, a visit from me on my last few hours of life would only be awkward and difficult.

This is the real reason for this choice of location. Here I can remember happy days when she was the center of our world and we were hers. I reach out and gently touch the wall that now belongs to a stranger. It is time to go.

I glide back out the window and shoot high into the sky, leaving my tears and memories behind. One final destination.

This last flight is long and cold and grows ever darker as the sun fades from the sky. I sail on into moonlight and distant, icy stars. Finally, as the light begins to glow around the edges of the east, I descend.

A tiny bit of grass. A tiny bit of sand. Nothing much remains after the devestation of the greatest wars the world has ever seen. Not even after over 248 years.

I was two when the wars began and twelve when they ended. In those ten years my family moved countless times and barely escaped the devestation time after time after time. I don't remember much other than the constant hunger and fear except for one memory that looms larger than life as I now near the end of my own. I touch down in the middle of the spongy grass and gaze at the scene.

Rubble and silence. The outlines of a house barely discernible through a few shards of ultra-glass that survived the bombings.

We had a warning of only a few seconds before the bombs hit. My mother, a hazy memory of dark hair and warmth, had thrown herself around me to protect me from the worst of the blast. I survived, she did not.

Bile rises in my throat as I remember the horror, the trauma, the fear. I vomit repeatedly, shaking on the tiny bit of grass, until exhausted beyond measure, I lay still.

I know by the light growing around me, that only a few minutes remain. I feel empty. Drained.

And then, as if from a long distance, I hear my mother's voice echo through the years to reach me at the moment I need her words the most.

"Benny, darling, don't be afraid. They can take the light, but they can never take your faith."

I close my eyes, smile, let go of the light, and let fly my faith.

The text came through today. The caseworker's words jumped off my phone's screen and went jabbing deep into my core.

"The relatives have completed paperwork and are starting the process. It will be a couple months at least until we know anything for sure but I wanted to let you know."

Furiously I willed back the tears as I looked up from phone into the sea of High School faces waiting for me to continue my English lesson. Somehow I stumbled through, grateful for the first time, of the mask that covered my face so they wouldn't see me biting my lips to hold back the sobs.

Gracie, my sweet, sweet Gracie's future lies in jeopardy.

I'll never forget the day over eight months ago when my son and I walked nervously, eagerly, into the maternity wing of the hospital. The call had come of a 2 day baby girl desperately in need of a loving foster home. Born addicted to meth, with no prenatal care and a history of alcohol and smoking thrown into the mix, her future and health remained unclear but I knew immediately that my only answer was going to be a resounding, "Yes!"

As the nurse ushered us into the room with all the tiny cribs and swaddled newborns, we could hear one infant screaming lustily and angrily. My son looked at me worriedly and I smiled back. No matter what we were about to face, this child would find a safe, nurturing home, I reminded myself. "Here, I've put her into a private room for you around this corner," the nurse said and led us past the screaming infant. Part of me, I'll admit, felt relief.

And then, there she was. A tiny, baby girl wearing a stained onesie and threadbare socks was sleeping so peacefully. She opened her eyes to reveal a lovely shade of blue underneath dark swirls of hair. She was absolutely gorgeous and I fell instantly in love. A feeling of wanting to protect and keep this little one safe from all harm rushed over me. And, I wasn't alone in that feeling as my son, age 12, said breathlessly, "Mom, when we get her home, can you show me how to give her a bottle?"

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of many nights of every four hour feedings and baby snuggles. She was by far the most content baby I have ever cared for even with needing five different formulas before they discovered she was lactose intolerant. And then the pandemic struck, and my school went completely virtual, and suddenly I was stay at home Mama and full-time virtual teacher!

Gracie, as we called her, participated in endless Zoom calls with students and recorded video lessons. She'd drink her bottle during long staff meetings and smile happily at the screen while I tutored Seniors one on one. Once we figured out her formula needs, she quickly made up for lost time and soon reached the 90th percentile on the doctor's chart for height and weight. "Perfectly balanced!" said her pediatrician.

She became the darling of the family, with my sons taking turns giving her a bottle or serenading her with rock and roll guitar concerts to make her giggle and laugh. My sassy, sunshine and rainbows adopted daughter who was five became her biggest fan. Gracie laughed at everything she did so she'd spend hours twirling and dancing to entertain her.

During this blissful time, we were in our own little bubble. Her biological mom had left the state and didn't even bother to use her cell phone for zoom visits. Her biological father was entirely unknown. Even caseworker monthly visits were conducted via zoom so in a way it felt like she really was mine, even tho I tried so hard to remind myself that she wasn't... not fully... not yet.

After more months of happiness, the word adoption started coming out more and more in talks with her caseworker. Parental rights' by all acounts, would most likely be terminated soon on grounds of abandonment. The agency sounded excited when they knew I was open, eager, and willing to adopt this precious baby girl and add her to my forever family.

And then, the bottom dropped out. A long distant relative had come forward. Second cousin of the grandfather expressed interest. Never mind that they hadn't been involved in her entire life. Never mind that Gracie has only known one loving home. Never mind that the trauma of separating her from not just the woman she calls, "Mama", but every other family member she has ever known, would most likely cause life-long damage. They must be sent paperwork and given consideration because they are biologically linked (however distant that link might be)...

And so I sit here tonight, in the quiet and let the feelings come. The children are all asleep, Gracie tucked into her crib, dreaming peacefully unknowing all the currents that swirl around her future.

All alone here in the silence and the quiet, I know. And I feel.

Tomorrow I will rise again. I will change her and feed her and coo and make her laugh. I will snuggle her and rock her as she gets sleepy and laugh at her "Mmm" sounds while eating a new flavor of baby food. I will clap and praise her as she pushes and tries so hard to start that baby crawl. I will sing and dance with her around the kitchen. I will read her a story and help her pet kitty cat. I will practice sounds with her and chatter away so she learns new words. I will love, praise, care, and provide for her. I will be her Mama, every moment of every day, that God gives me and the pain that comes and goes in waves will make each moment that much more precious.

For I am now, and will always be, her foster Mama.

Humanity-

Frail.

Forlorn.

Frightened.

Faith-

Humble.

Honest.

Hopeful.

Heaven-

Far-fetched.

Fever-dream.

Forever-dwell.

Father-

Happiness.

Holy-God.

He is, He was, He will be.

Hell-

Fearful.

Forsaken.

Forgotten.

Forgive me God.

Forsake me not.

Faith I have- despite death and dust.

The padlock dangled, hanging at a crooked angle, gleaming in the soft light of the half-burned candle. It mocked her as if to say, "You cannot escape- no matter how hard you try..."

The pencil, also gleaming, lay by the pristine sheet of paper, unmarked, unmarred by any marks of lead. She grimaced, shook her head, trying in vain to break her trance. She rubbed her tired eyes and yet, still nothing came into her aching head. Even locking herself in couldn't break the spell. Writer's block once again, had reared its ugly head.

"I can't."

"You can."

"I'm not strong enough."

"You have all the strength you need."

"What if I fail?"

"What if you succeed?"

"What if the pain is too great?"

"What if the pain brings healing to others?"

"What if..."

Silence.

Bowed head.

Sigh.

"Okay God."

"Take My hand child, I am with you every step of the way."

She clutched her hoodie tightly around her body, shivering with cold. The wind whipped tendrils of long brown hair around her face and sent teardrops splattering to the ground. Her slight frame shook and looked as if she would fall at any moment. How could anyone withstand the shock of losing a beloved child? Not born of her body, not born of her blood, the child she had bathed and fed and held in the wee hours of the night for over a year was slowly drifting from her sight as the caseworker backed the car down the driveway. She had held his tiny hands while he took his first steps and clapped with joy when he spoke his first word. She had celebrated every milestone and wiped away every tear. Now she stood and cried- wondering if he would be comforted when he searched and cried for her in the middle of the night.

The sizzle of hamburger hitting the hot pan. The scent of cigarette smoke drifting through the tiny mobile home. The creak of the linoleum floor with her shuffling gait. Her frizzy fine white hair above twinkling hazel eyes and craggy wrinkled skin. Her nods and smiles as she listens to all my after school stories. My words, never rushed or hurried or pushed aside. She listens to me with all her might and keeps the door always open. In that tiny space, she creates a haven for a lonely girl with a million things to say. My Grandma, my best friend, my fiercest defender.

Her life a struggle, from beginning to end, inspires her love of poetry and writing. She hands this love down to me, hours without end.

She will never be forgotten, and our stories will never end.